Looking Glass
by Schuyler Lola
Summary: How could you be so wrong? You were looking at yourself. Weren't you? Postep to 4.07.


**Disclaimer:** I have no ownership of NUMB3RS.

This is a bit of an experiment for me: I'm fiddling around with some styles, and attempting to expand on them. This is also evidence that I haven't died, since I haven't posted in this fandom in a while.

Also some missing scenes from 4.07, "Tabu." And some post-ep.

Enjoy! Feedback is appreciated.

Looking Glass

You drop into your chair, putting your feet up. Such a normal action, such a simple movement. Why do you feel so threatened?

It's that file in front of you: innocent. Thin. Standard file. Nothing special, nothing screaming that it's a giant pit ready to swallow you up.

No, it's the story of your life.

It sounds pathetic even to your own mind.

But, really, it is, isn't it? You scoop the file off of the desk, and clutch it. You don't _need_ to look at it (or hold it or think about it or anything like that), but you can't let go. This file is important to you now.

Not because you care about the person's life spelled out inside, but because it's your story.

Who is she to live _your_ life?

----

You don't know why, but you go to the hospital that night. You walk down the halls, feeling like you're missing something. (Gun, badge, wallet, cell phone…?) There's an ache in your chest, too. An empty feeling.

Then why do you feel like you're grasping at air and getting nothing?

Inhale, exhale. You ask the nurse at reception where the room is. She smiles at you, thinking that you're some bereaved family member. You give back your own tight smile. Oh, but you are very far from that.

The glassed room is where you stop. Room 401. _Ella Pierce_. She lies in the bed, staring straight ahead. She's only there for the night, just to make sure she's okay. Your lip curls in distaste. She _tried_ to kill her father.

You see the look on her face. A blank, closed off stare. You know that look well. It's the kind you have to practice and hone, for years.

You always did it perfectly.

----

How could you be so wrong about Ella? You narrow your eyes at her through the glass. She doesn't move.

You thought you were looking at yourself.

Weren't you?

But all of your assumptions were wrong. Every last idea you had about this case was worthless. Meaningless.

You understand perfectly _why_ you were wrong and _why_ you came up with all of your misdirected conclusions ("It's probably the only love she's ever known…"… "That's the face of a scared little girl…") and _why_ Don told you to get off the case. You know why. You would have told yourself to get off the case, too.

Because you feel a strange kind of kinship with Ella. The closeness is worse.

----

Twice in a year, you think.

Crystal Hoyle. Ella Pierce.

One goes on a killing spree with a seventeen year old, the other tries to topple her father's empire and kill him.

And these are the people you have things in common with.

You fold your arms over your chest. Your breath makes a little cloud on the glass, and you touch the surface with your fingertips.

This connection that you feel, it's deeper than that. Deeper than the familial issues and troubled adolescences. It's one of knowing and living the same thoughts.

----

Ella hasn't moved in the twenty minutes that you've been there.

_Impressive_.

You blink; pace the hallway. You want to say something to her. You want to know why she decided to go after her father.

Actually, you think you understand. But, still – you want to know.

The scary part is that you understand.

----

One might have some sadness for Ella. You don't. You don't feel anything resembling sadness. Some anger and confusion and fear, maybe – never pity. Pretty little rich girl. Poor little rich girl.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

In fact, you think that she was stupid. Now, looking back over the case, she was stupid. (So were you.)

But she was angry, and lonely, and hurt…and you know what that can turn into.

What if you really were her? What if you really were the same, like you thought?

----

Your hand rests on the doorknob – you want to go in. You don't want to go in. You're fumbling, scared, shrinking away. You're being your teenage self again. You never knew what to do then. Until, one day, you just went.

Ella's eyes meet yours. She doesn't recognize you.

No – there's a glimmer there. A hard look of hate. You cringe.

But you go in, anyway. Banging the door shut makes you feel a little more in control. the light hits your badge and you almost feel whole again. Ella stares you down. You answer the challenge.

"What do _you_ want?" she spits out.

You tilt your head, searching for something. "It never had to be like this," you tell her.

"Yeah?" she demands. "You know all about it, huh? Every last detail? You know about my – my _father?_"

Oddly, the ghost of a smile breaks to the surface of your face. "I know." You let the words hang. "I know too much."

She glares at you. "Get_ out_."

You shake your head. "Do you remember those nights, nights when your father would give you a present, look at your picture, say something to you that was meant for you and you alone?"

Ella is silent, fury leaking from each pore.

"They were the greatest thing in the world." You smile again. "Until they stopped."

You pause. "But I wouldn't know that you tried for those moments even after, while you were trying to piss him off at the same time. He never noticed. So you left."

She gives you the blank stare. You've gotten to her. You change tack. "There's always another way out," you say, softly. "You've got the wrong one."

And you leave, triumphant.

----

_There's always another way out._

There's still hope for you, and _your_ father, right?

You click on "Pay with Credit Card." The computer hums a minute and you punch in the number. _Non-refundable_.

You think you'll finally get the right one.

----

You put your purse in your lap, and sit back. You're waiting. Only a few minutes now…

They call out your flight, and you stand up, flinging the purse over your shoulder. You rub the edge of a faded photo, stuff it in your pocket.

But it's the boarding pass that feels like hope.


End file.
